Helga G. Pataki
by SparrowWriter
Summary: It's not that horribly sappy, I promise. :-) Well, maybe it is, but I still thought the writing was okay! H/A...Please read and review!


My name is Helga G. Pataki.  
  
I know you were expecting some glamourous name, one that jumps off the page screaming "likable heroine" and is automatically that girl you're rooting for all through the story. Sorry. I didn't pick my name. When the people in charge of the whole naming thing are a guy who sells beepers with a permanent superficial smile and his dimwitted wife, it usually ends up where you wish you'd have supervised it. Maybe with a name like Lila, my days would be different.  
  
But it's not. My name is Helga.  
  
Okay?  
  
Back to the story.  
  
There I stood, always misguided and misunderstood, glaring into the hot sun. September usually brought relief from the harsh summer weather, but not this September. As if to get me ready for the turmoil of the approaching fifth grade, the sun showed no mercy, which isn't a good thing when you've just been shoved outside to walk to school. Well, not shoved, exactly, but routine of for 6 years of schooling wasn't about to be broken because of a little heat wave. I'd set on my way to P.S. 118, sun or snow, every weekday until July.   
  
Or so I thought.  
  
"Helga!" I heard my name being called by a familiar voice. My mind still lost in the haze of summer, I didn't recognize it at first. Swimming through the sea of memories of my classmates, my heart skipped a beat. How could I forget the voice of…the voice of…  
  
"Arnold!" I gasped. I hadn't meant for my voice to sound hopeful or happy, but I couldn't really help it. I could hardly think straight, let alone talk normally. What was Arnold - possibly the most amazing being ever to grace the halls of P.S. 118 - doing outside my house? Or, even odder, calling out my name? "What are you doing here, Football Head?" I hissed, turning. I'd called him the dreadful nickname so often, it came naturally, but this time, somehow, I truly regretted it.  
  
Arnold retreated from a corner hidden in the shadows and gave a small, nervous laugh. "You know," he began, gazing oddly at me, "I'm not very sure myself." Both of us were quiet for a moment, until he started to speak again. "I - I was thinking…"  
  
"Novel idea," I snapped. There with the quick insults! I scolded myself silently, and managed a small apologetic grin. "Go on, Football -" I paused and swallowed. "I mean, Arnold."  
  
"This really wasn't a good idea," Arnold murmured hastily. "We've - I've - you've…" He growled quietly with frustration. "Got to get to school," he finished, taking a deep breath. He paused, biting his lip. "I've got to be going now," he whispered, turning. "Forget I was here."  
  
Fool. How could I forget something like this?  
  
"Arnold?" I called quietly after his disappearing figure. He looked over his shoulder toward me, and I felt a jab in my heart. Was it remorse? Could I, Helga G. Pataki, world-renowned as heartless, feel sorry? "I didn't mean it," I said finally.  
  
"Neither did I," he whispered.  
  
Silence. Pure silence.  
  
I don't deal well with silence.  
  
"Why were you here?" I demanded, just the shatter the sheer quiet echoing between us.  
  
"You do have a right to know."  
  
Again, the annoyance of an awkward silence. Life is all too full of them.  
  
"I came here for a reason," Arnold began. Obviously. At least I didn't have to break the eerie calm. "And I think it's about time I told you."   
  
Get on with it, Football Head! My heart pounded and I struggled to breathe at a normal rate. What was this horribly important secret? Why couldn't it wait until school started?  
  
"I -" he began.  
  
"I -" I coaxed.  
  
"I -" we chorused in unison.  
  
"Like you."  
  
Yes. We had both said it.  
  
Needless to say, I was astounded.   
  
"Why?" I breathed incredulously.  
  
"Well, you're," he replied, turning from my gaze, "smart, that's for sure. And an excellent writer. I know those were your poems," Arnold whispered, referring to my multiple anonymous 'ode to Arnold's turned in as assignments. "But mostly because you're you. You're Helga G. Pataki."  
  
"And you're Arnold - Arnold -" I searched my mind frantically, trying to think. "Hey - what is your last name?  
  
THE END  



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